


Masks we Play

by orphan_account



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/F, Hatesex, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Civilization" makes for strange bedfellows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks we Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InTheWind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheWind/gifts).



> Thank you to aphrodite_mine for the beta!

In the evening light, Shinon is beautiful to behold. Three of the planet's four moons are visible in the sky. Inara's favorite, Tian, shades the house garden in a purple luminescence.

As house priestess, Inara is free to do as she pleases. The trainees, and most of the full-fledged Companions, are now asleep in their beds, leaving Inara alone to gaze at the night sky.

Inara remembers days when there was no sky above her head, just an endless sea of stars flying past her. Once, she had felt the cold, hard feel of metal under her bare feet, instead of comforting earth. Finally, her thoughts wander to a motley crew of misfits on a ship that could barely hold itself together. A place she had once called home.

The soft rustle of moving feet pulls Inara out of her internal reverie. Companions are trained to be graceful, but not completely silent.

It's one of the male students that emerges from the grass, a slender boy nearly finished with his tutelage.

“Mother,” he says calmly, (all students of the guild are rigorously trained in the art of control), “an intruder has been caught stealing from our altar. We humbly request you return to the house at once.”

Inara follows the trainee, secretly excited there's a change in her house's monotonous routine. A woman sits in the common room, her hands and legs bound to a chair. Next to her lies a sack of candlesticks and other stolen treasures, proof of her thievery.

The woman looks up, revealing a familiar face amidst a disheveled mop of reddish hair.

'Saffron,' Inara thinks. 'Mal's evil, double-crossing snake.'

Inara does not know the other woman's real name and doubts she ever will. Instead, she chooses to call her by the first name she was presented with, when she had disguised herself as Malcolm Reynold's innocent bride.

Inara may have run with criminals back then, but she had still been naïve, after a fashion. Her younger self could scarcely believe a woman could leave the Guild to pursue a life of crime. Then again, Saffron is far more than a mere criminal. She likes the game far more than the payoff, signs of a mind that could never have passed a basic House screening. Inara had once even ran a facial scan through the Companion registry, unsurprised when her search came up with no results. Saffron's training remains as much a mystery as her true identity.

“Mother,” Inara's second, Valyria, bows her head in deference. “This woman came to the house seeking Geoffrey's services,” she nods to the man on her left, “but once we had turned our backs on her, she stripped the altar of its valuables. She would have escaped if not for Toby's intervention.” Now Valyria inclined her head in the direction of the boy who had brought Inara from the garden.

'Sloppy,' Inara thinks, 'and not her style of thievery.'

“We wanted to call the Feds,” her second continues, “but I dared not to make the call without your approval.”

Saffron remains silent through the exchange, a rare thing indeed, inspiring Inara to take a chance and give in to her curiosity.

“Leave the authorities out of this,” Inara instructs, “untie her feet and bring her to my chambers.”

Startled gasps and a few protests follow her as she walks to her rooms. Inara pays them no mind.

Toby wants to tie Saffron to the chair, but Inara dismisses him with a wave of her hand. She's seen Saffron in action and knows that these simple bonds cannot hold her. Saffron will come and go as she pleases. She always has before.

The doors shut closed behind them, Inara turns in the direction of the con artist.

“What are you doing in my house, Saffron, and what are you up to this time?”

Saffron smiles, pursing her lips in a classic seductive manner.

“How else was I to get the house priestess' attention, Inara? Word has it that your services are nigh impossible to procure. And I... I have always longed for you Inara. You're so beautiful, so graceful...”

Inara pulls a sword down from the wall, and holds the tip to Saffron's throat.

“You've lost your touch, Saffron, even a man wouldn't fall for that load of _shiong mao niao._ Tell me why you are really here or I'll run this sword through you here and now.”

Saffron laughs maniacally, yet another sign that she is not quite sane.

“Look at you, Inara, all decked out in finery. Play the role of a proper Alliance citizen, but I know what you are underneath. I know what you've done, running around the ‘verse with scum like Malcolm Reynolds. You're as much a criminal as me, sister and,” Saffron somehow manages to inch closer despite the presence of the sword, “I know what you need.”

Inara throws the sword to the side and turns her back on the other woman. Part of what Saffron says is true. She is not the same woman who joined Serenity all those years ago. Underneath the vestments of a house priestess, she is the last of a dying breed. She has run with outlaws against the tyranny of Alliance control, seen countless innocent blood shed, and buried more friends than she cares to think of.

“Thank you Saffron,” she replies sarcastically, “but I'll have no need of your services tonight.”

She turns too late. Saffron has broken free of her bounds. Now she lunges at Inara, throwing her on the bed.

The two women wrestle back and forth, each struggling for dominance, neither of them truly wanting control. Inara's the one who finally gives in, drawing Saffron into a brutal kiss. They are tearing at each other’s clothes, flesh grapsing for flesh.

As house priestess, Inara is no longer obligated to take clients. She may even take a lover if she wishes. Not that she does. Inara is past the days of tea ceremonies and gentle seductions. What she needs is more basic, more primal, something few can offer her. But Saffron... a woman Inara once despised so utterly, is giving her everything her body so desperately craves.

…

Inara wakes up the next morning and bursts out laughing. Saffron is gone, along with half of Inara's glamorous wardrobe and all of her jewelry.

Saffron will come again, as she so many times before. Despite their differences, their history of animosity, they are all they have left in this now “civilized” world. Until then, Inara will be waiting.

 


End file.
